Tell me what you eat and I’ll tell you who you are.
—Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin
Time to feed.
This year, my appetite troubles me for something more than the usual night-crawling college student or hapless overweight security guard. Maybe I’m getting sophisticated. (I did eat the brain of a French poodle last week. Smelly. It was like, bow-WOW!)
Anyway, here’s my menu, the brains I want to eat this Zombie Week.
Please pass the ketchup …
I. Zombie likes to start meals with something really really light …
So I can totally steal his idea and launch my very own social network, called Brainbook.
To see if he ever just wants to yell “Shut. Up. Shut the hell up, diarrhea mouths! STUFF IT!”
Tastes … funny.
To find out if he ever thought of this: “If you’re driving in your jacked-up 1977 Gremlin at 110 miles per hour with a PBR in one fist and the cut-off head of your mama’s pit bull hanging out the window in the other … well, you just might be a meth addict!”
Mmmm. Tastes like vagina!
Wow. Whoo! Light trails, man. Want to see a potato Bigfoot? Hey, my thing itches. Squaw tits! Woo!
To see how it feels to know you only ever made it into Paste Magazine that one time that I. Zombie wrote an article about eating brains.
Something pickled or smoked always tastes good at mealtime. Plus, he’s Jesus of Zombies. His brain? Take, eat, in remembrance of me …
I put this in because Josh Jackson, Paste editor, was too embarrassed to let anyone know he thought of it.
Bipolar brains? Good bargains. Two for the price of one.
Fifty shades of gray matter.
So oy can talk like ‘im, mate. Right then …
I. Zombie lives (if you call it that) in Alabama at night, Atlanta by day. He’s already eaten the brain of Paste books editor Charles McNair.